


Freedom

by Jay_eagle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Dark, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Hypothermia, Imprisonment, John Whump, M/M, Major Illness, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Sherlock Whump, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1489834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a prompt on the kink meme. Sherlock and John are kidnapped and held in an inescapable prison with death awaiting them come morning. Sherlock deduces that John is craving a wank before he dies and confronts him with it. John at first denies it, but can't get past Sherlock's logic, and eventually admits it. Sherlock tells him to go ahead and turns around to give him privacy, but finds himself being irrevocably turned on by the sounds John can’t quite repress. John, likewise, is very turned on by Sherlock being in the same room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom

To begin with, Sherlock had behaved like a human hurricane; whirling around the room, his coat flapping audibly behind him like a dark cape. John had stood in the centre of the dark room as the detective swirled to and fro, checking every nook and cranny of their pitch-black prison for any chance of an escape route. Distractedly, he wondered if Sherlock was blessed with the same senses as the bat he always resembled as he flapped about – how else was he managing to brush so close to him without once knocking him with as much as a stray elbow?

His train of thought was interrupted by the realisation that Sherlock had come to a halt. “You’ve found a way out?” John whispered, hope rising in his chest. Unconsciously, over the last year, John had come to have implacable faith in his friend’s remarkable ability to extricate them from any tight spot. He hurried to Sherlock’s side, stumbling in the darkness. “What have you found?”

Sherlock’s hesitation should have been John’s first clue. His friend was nothing if not the master of the rapid retort – the cockier, the better. But now he was silent, for a long moment. At last, unwillingly – “Nothing,” grumbled the detective.

“Nothing?” repeated John, bewilderment evident in his tone. “But – how are we going to get out?”

“I – don’t know,” replied Sherlock. You didn’t need to know him as well as John did to gauge just what it cost him to admit he was at a loss – the strain and barely suppressed rage in his tone was plain.

“Not to hassle you, but they did say that we wouldn’t live to see the sun rise...”

“I know, John – I’m thinking.”

John’s own mind began to whirr. “What about when they come to fetch us, to kill us?” he whispered. ”We could have a shot at overpowering them –“

“The thought had occurred,” interrupted Sherlock. “However,” – reluctantly – “I don’t believe that they are going to come and fetch us. Feel – here –“ He grasped for John’s wrists, locating them in the dark.

John tried to avoid the sharp intake of breath that was always his involuntary reaction to any physical contact with his friend. He focused on keeping his breathing calm, concentrating on the feel of the nozzle-shaped thing protruding from the wall that Sherlock had guided his hands towards. “Gas?” he speculated.

“Chlorine, at a guess,” replied Sherlock. “Wilson will have plenty, and easy access to it – no one would question the owner of a gym with a pool if he were found in possession of that particular chemical.”

“Of course,” agreed John, trying to ignore the violent churning of his stomach at the thought of being gassed to death. Unbidden, images from his old medical textbooks rose to mind; pictures of twisted faces, contorted bodies that they were shown as part of his Afghan training. He concentrated on clearing his mind, and was proud that his voice was steady when he spoke again. “So – what can we do?” He heard rustling, and felt Sherlock give a convulsive wriggle.

“Try and smother the nozzle with clothing, for a start,” the detective proposed, coolly. John twitched as he felt the smooth brush of Sherlock’s bare arm against his cheek, his friend now apparently shrugging off his shirt. Pushing the sudden lewd thought of Sherlock naked from his brain, John joined in, divesting himself of his jumper, shirt and jeans. As he hooked one foot out of his trouser-leg, he stumbled in the dark, to be quickly caught by Sherlock’s strong hands. How on earth could he see?

“How did you know I had tripped?” he whispered, as he passed his clothes over, more to distract himself from the memory of those swift, warm fingers than anything else.

“Simple – I used my ears, John. And the faint disturbance you made in the air as you stumbled. Combined, they provoked a reflex reaction in me to steady you. Would you rather I had let you fall?” He sounded surprisingly nettled. Then again, John had become used to his friend’s sharp moods. He ignored the rhetorical question, instead backing away a pace or two.

Sherlock stuffed as much of the clothing as he could manage over the nozzle and checked it was secure. Privately, he doubted it would have much effect; their captors would have to be fools not to funnel in enough gas to overcome the flimsy barrier he’d been able to construct. Still, it was important to try to keep John fighting. If he could pretend that there was hope – His train of thought broke off as he listened to the soft flump of John sliding down the wall to the floor. John was right; they must try to conserve their energy. He emulated the doctor’s actions, lowering himself on to the tiles, where he sat, straight-backed, fingers steepled under his chin as he tried to contemplate to see if he had overlooked anything that could have helped them.

They remained seated in silence for a good three hours (aside from a hissed admonition from Sherlock, reprimanding John for thinking). Try as he might, no solutions presented themselves to him, and still the minutes stretched on with no sound or word from the gang who had overcome them and unceremoniously shoved them into this cold, two-metre square cell.

Sherlock gradually became aware that John’s thought pattern had shifted. At first, of course, he could follow John’s train of thought – shallow, tense breaths that indicated John was also trying to think their way out of the situation. That was irritating and had prompted the fractious snipe from him. Following his reprimand, John’s thoughts had momentarily chased round in irritation with him – that much was clear from the muted muttering. Then he had recalled the incident in Afghanistan where he had nearly died (the unconscious rubbing of his shoulder Sherlock could hear indicated that) – then it was most likely that John’s mind had pursued more recent events with him, recalling similar tight spots, then reviewing the case so far... At this point, Sherlock had entered his mind-palace and ceased to pay any attention to his friend. Until now.

John’s breathing had lengthened – but there was the odd hitch in his intake of air. Curious. What could that signify?

John’s mind had indeed followed the course that Sherlock had deduced, right up until current events. Once he had given up being restrainedly frantic (oxymorons seemed to be a logical way to greet impending death), despite his best efforts, familiar emotions washed over him. It didn’t help that he was perfectly well aware that Sherlock was less than a metre away in the dark, almost completely naked. He tried to shake himself out of the explicit fantasies his adrenaline-flooded brain was providing him with, but couldn’t succeed. The idea of touching Sherlock – stroking that alabaster skin – feeling the pulse beat in his neck as he kissed his throat – jerking him off with quick, passionate thrusts of his fist – His breath caught again.

“For God’s sake, John – what’s the matter with you?” Sherlock’s frustrated voice broke in to John’s wild imaginings, making him jump. He blushed, guiltily, suddenly very glad of the complete darkness of their prison. Thank goodness his friend had no way of knowing that his boxers had turned into a tent.

“What’s the matter with your breathing?” Sherlock mused, aloud. “You were thinking your way through our recent scrapes – but you’re not any more. You’ve covered your time in Afghanistan – you’re not thinking about means of escape...” John cringed, knowing that any second, Sherlock’s deductive powers would lead him to the correct answer. Even if it was to do with sex. “Aha!” John was certain that he was now the colour of a beetroot, flushed cheeks burning. Sherlock rounded on him, and John could hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke.

“Don’t mind me, doctor. Just a healthy physiological response to an adrenaline-inducing situation, I’m sure.” Sherlock paused, then continued. “I don’t mind if you want to pretend your last hours are being spent with Sarah – or Jeanette – oh, what’s her name – the most recent one. The most annoying one –“

“Alice!” spat John, enraged. “You do it on purpose, I know you do. You just don’t like to imagine there’s anything more important than you in the world for anyone – especially me!”

“There isn’t,” responded Sherlock, so calmly that it made John seethe. “Clearly there isn’t, otherwise why aren’t you with Alice this evening? She did invite you to meet her parents tonight, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but I had to follow you because you seemed to be intent on bearding these bloody killers in their lair, and I was mad enough to be concerned about you going in unarmed. Of course, I needn’t have bothered, because sodding arrogant Sherlock Holmes always knows best and can extricate himself from any tricky situation – like this one. Oh, wait –“

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, John. Your need to wank – that’s much more you. You’re overdue, tonight – always midnight, on the dot, isn’t it – Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. With an extra special session on high holidays and on Sundays in the summer. John Watson, the regimented routine of a soldier – in everything.”

John could feel he had turned even more scarlet with embarrassment. “You keep TRACK?!”

“Of course – I note everything you do. You’re very interesting to me.”

“Sod that,” snapped John. He wrenched round, turning his back on the detective, and they each seethed in silence for a while. Until John replayed Sherlock’s words in his head. ‘You’re very interesting to me.’ What had he meant by that? The doctor recalled the hot pressure of Sherlock’s hands catching him – so aware of him, always. But Sherlock was like that with everyone. Wasn’t he?

No, John realised. So often when he looked up, he would meet his friend’s eyes. Only because Sherlock was watching him already. In anyone else, that would signify attraction – but in Sherlock? A world of possibilities rushed through his mind. Normally, he wouldn’t give it a second thought. But tonight – the clarifying adrenaline beating through him – no outside world pressing in to distract him – he considered for the first time the idea that his feelings might be reciprocated. If he was wrong, though – there was no way to be sure.

Then again, Sherlock seemed to be listening closely to what he was doing. Cautiously, he slipped his hand inside his boxers. His erection had flagged during his spat with his friend, but a series of firm strokes soon brought him back to full mast again. Slowly, he dragged one finger up the underside of his cock, feeling pleasure race through him at his own gentle touch. How would Sherlock touch him, if he ever did? Would he be rough, or soft? John suspected that the detective would belie his harsh exterior by being tender and inexperienced.

John’s breathing hitched again as he pictured Sherlock grasping his cock. He tightened his fist round himself again and stroked, his boxers rustling slightly as his left hand came round to play with his balls through the material. Surely Sherlock had heard that. And the detective always had a response to everything. John waited for the biting jibe about his lack of restraint.

But none was forthcoming. Perhaps his friend was just going to pointedly ignore his flagrant self-abuse. Pretend it wasn’t happening, to allow John some privacy... but that was not like Sherlock. Sherlock, who was – panting?

John’s eyes flew wide with shock. Had that really been Sherlock – the arrogant, restrained, disinterested Sherlock – who had let out that hastily muffled gasp? The quickened breath quickly suppressed?

“Sherlock –“ hesitating because the very idea was surely insane – “are you enjoying this?”

“Enjoying what? Being trapped? The thought is completely idiotic.” The tones of dripping disdain were somewhat marred by the whimper that Sherlock let out as John’s fingers reached out and brushed over his hand, soft as a whisper.

“Not enjoying being trapped,” murmured John. “But being trapped – with me – like this?” His hesitant hand rested briefly over the back of Sherlock’s, heat flashing from him to the other man.

“It’s hardly the time or the place –“ Sherlock said, with effort – struggling not to turn to meet John’s face, feeling hot breath washing over his ear as the doctor moved closer.

“And if we never get another time or place? Our clothes are never going to be enough to protect us from the gas that you think is going to issue from that nozzle. What if now is all we ever have?”

Suddenly, a rough mouth closed over John’s lips. Sherlock had given in.

The frantic kiss took John by surprise, and he scrambled to find purchase on the slippery tiles as the other man pressed against him. Sherlock seemed to realise his difficulty as he moved himself round so as to steady John, warm hands supporting his ribcage and chest. John gasped slightly at the feel of those gentle palms touching his bare skin, simultaneously inhaling the spicy smell of Sherlock’s shampoo as the detective broke away briefly.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, worry and nervousness evident in his voice.

John’s brain was revving furiously in neutral. “Apart from being locked in a windowless cell and being left to die?” he quipped, trying to lighten the intensity that pervaded the room.

“Don’t joke, John. Unless – the thought of this is just a fleeting whim to you – something humorous –“

“Shh,” interrupted the doctor. “It’s not a whim. Just not too good with emotions. Still a bloke, after all.”

“And a British one, at that.”

“Shut up.” John leaned forward, from a more comfortable kneeling position this time, and tried to kiss Sherlock again. In the darkness he missed slightly, landing a soft, awkward kiss on the detective’s jaw. The prickle of early stubble beneath his lips was new and exciting, and he mouthed his way gently up to Sherlock’s ear, sucking lightly on the lobe. Sherlock’s breathing could definitely more accurately be described as panting now, and John felt a giddy rush of exhilaration as he felt hands sliding up his back, tracing the small knobbles of his vertebrae as though they were the most fascinating map of the universe.

The complete darkness was heightening everything; every touch was magnified a hundredfold and the anticipation of the next caress was almost better than it actually happening. Sherlock seemed to want to reciprocate John’s loving sucking; moving one hand from his back to tilt his partner’s chin gently back, the detective leaned forward to lick John’s neck, a hot, wet stripe that extended from his collarbone to his chin. John tried desperately not to imagine how that action would feel if applied to his cock. He wasn’t sure how far Sherlock was prepared to go. Tentatively, he slid his hand up, finding Sherlock’s bare thigh. Sherlock flinched away convulsively, to John’s dismay.

“Sorry  - sorry –“ he tried to apologise. “We don’t have to –“

“No,” Sherlock gasped. “Your hand – it’s cold, that’s all – you’d been resting it on the floor.”

A great wave of relief broke over John. “Thank God,” he replied, hoarsely. Sherlock was back to nuzzling his neck, making him quiver with want. “I just wasn’t sure – what you wanted –“

“Everything.”

“Everything?” John repeated, unable to quite believe what he was hearing.

In reply, Sherlock slipped his free hand down to John’s lap, eliciting a wordless moan from the doctor. John’s moan slipped up another volume level as he felt Sherlock’s head descending, the detective dropping light, fluttery kisses over John’s body as he moved lower, stopping briefly to swirl his tongue around the peaked nub of the doctor’s left nipple – all the while his hand stroking John’s shaft gently while John tried not to writhe out of his own skin in pleasure.

Sherlock removed his hand from the doctor’s cock and was electrified to hear John whine, actually whine, with longing. Quickly, he coaxed John to lift his hips, slipping off his boxers. Hurriedly he replaced his hand with his tongue, laving the head of John’s cock before gently licking down the shaft. He sucked with increasing pressure as he gradually moved back up to the slit at the tip, going so slowly John could almost track his progression molecule by molecule, atom by atom.

“Oh God, Sherlock – Christ, that feels amazing... Ah!”

Sherlock had softly probed the slit, weeping precome, with his tongue, simultaneously moving both his hands lightly up John’s thighs, ticklishly. He was flat on his stomach on the cold floor now, propping his elbows either side of the doctor’s hips while his hands explored John’s thighs, groin, waist – delicately at first but growing bolder and firmer as John trembled and moaned beneath his mouth. He had increased the pace at which he was drawing John’s cock in and out, varying the suction unpredictably, and had rapidly figured out a figure-eight movement with his tongue on the fraenulum that seemed to make John sob with pleasure.

“Sherlock – Sherlock – I’m so close, so close –“ John mustered up all the self-control he could. “Stop, come here – I don’t want to come yet... God, oh God!”

The sudden feeling of loss as the detective released his cock made him shiver and moan, and he bent forward, blindly finding Sherlock’s face in the dark and kissing him thoroughly. Sherlock let out a moan of his own as he felt John’s hands turning him so that he lay on his back rather than his front. John lost no time in crawling forwards and encouraging Sherlock to pull off his pants - his breath catching as he felt Sherlock’s hands reaching up for him – first grabbing his hips with almost bruising intensity as John’s mouth found his shaft, then the long, lean fingers moving to wrap round his member.

They gasped and panted together now – John sucking Sherlock off with intense jerks of his head, Sherlock fisting John’s cock, loving the feel of his doctor twitching under his touch.

“So good,” Sherlock moaned, as John tongued at his foreskin, pushing it back, creating a sensation of tingling electricity at the base of his spine. “Don’t stop – Christ, John – hnnn...”

Hearing Sherlock groan wordlessly, knowing that it was his touch pushing the great detective into inarticulate sounds of delirious pleasure, meant John nearly came then and there without warning – especially as his partner chose that moment to lift his head up so he could swirl his tongue around John’s balls, lapping at them fervently and adoringly. Trying to ignore the sudden, almost unbearable tightness in his groin, he rolled off Sherlock with one last, long suck on his cock, carefully twisting through 180 degrees so that they were both oriented in the same direction again.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock sounded worried once more, though his voice was still husky from the gratification that John had been providing. “Was that not good? I don’t have to do that if it’s not-“

“Shh. It was perfect. Too perfect.” John smoothed a reassuring hand down Sherlock’s flank, marvelling at the feel of smooth skin and firm muscle beneath his fingertips.

“Oh. OH.” Sherlock understood, suddenly. “I wish I could see you – read your responses...”

“I guess this pitch darkness represents the only time I might be able to get you to stop deducing.” John dropped soft kisses on to Sherlock’s collarbone, the detective’s hand reaching up to cradle his head and run his fingers through his hair. It was ludicrous, given their extremely perilous situation, but that simple act made John feel so safe – protected – cradled against the world. He gave a sigh of contentment, but the lust burning within him had not abated. He shifted his hand, running the tips of his fingers up Sherlock’s thigh, before taking his cock into his fist and rubbing – slow enough that it would keep Sherlock from the brink, but not so slow as to tease. He felt Sherlock’s chest rumble with satisfaction.

After enjoying the caress for a few moments, Sherlock spoke, almost groaning out the words. “It isn’t just for the purpose of deduction that I want to be able to see you, John.”

It was John’s turn to take a moment to process what his friend was trying to tell him. A flash of heat sped through his groin as he understood. “You want... to see me?”

“Oh God, yes –ah – to see how much you’re enjoying this – watch your face, your cock...” Sherlock’s voice stuttered as John’s fist tightened on him momentarily.

“Christ, I wish I could see you too.”

“What are you imagining?” Sherlock asked, lust undisguised in his voice as he began to tremble beneath John’s insistent fisting. John leaned in for a deep, slow kiss before he answered, taking the time to tease Sherlock’s tongue with his, each man tasting himself on the other as their lips moved – slow at first, but with increasing excitement and passion. Sherlock broke away with a barely smothered gasp, John’s hand still working away at him, the inexorable firm grip causing heat to coil and twist in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t stall, John – what are you imagining?” The tease in his not-quite-steady voice was evident.

“I’m picturing you – laid out for me – your prick so, so hard, throbbing against your stomach – red, begging to be touched – licked –“ John blushed as he struggled to find the words to continue. It was strange; if it hadn’t been dark, he wouldn’t have dared to utter such thoughts aloud. But the blackness was freeing, in a peculiar way. Bravely, he carried on as Sherlock began to squirm at his touch, moving his hand from John’s hair down to trace a light pattern over his jaw and exposed neck. “I think – your head would be flung back; your neck so beautiful and long and all of you covered in sweat from how hard I’m making you, how much you want me...”

Sherlock moaned in abandon and pushed John’s hand away regretfully, hastily. “I’ll come if you don’t stop for a minute,” he said, and rolled on to his side to kiss John again. John met him as he moved, bringing their cocks into contact for the first time, making both of them gasp – then laugh at their joint reaction. John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s as they rutted against each other, cautiously, each man wanting to delay this pleasure, make it last.

“So – what were you imagining, Sherlock?” he whispered.

Sherlock took a steadying breath. “I was thinking of how long I’ve wanted this – how much time I’ve spent picturing how you would look in this moment.” He felt John twitch in surprise, and kissed him lightly, flickering his tongue over the doctor’s lips, before drawing away slightly. He continued: “I’ve pictured you hard and hot, gasping my name... wanting me and only me...”

“God...” breathed John, the movements of his hips speeding up almost involuntarily, to an answering writhe and groan from Sherlock.

“I can imagine – your hair all sticking up from where it’s been mussed – you breathing heavily, panting for me. Your cock – so beautiful – pre-come dripping – balls drawn up so tight as I make you explode with pleasure –“

“Ah, ah... Sherlock...”

“John,” breathed Sherlock, somehow infusing the single syllable with such passion and longing and want that John gave up any last attempt at self-control and instead gripped Sherlock’s hips tightly, coiling into him. Sherlock wrapped his arms round John’s neck and back, melding them into one entity, thrusting wildly.

“Sherlock – Sherlock – oh God, I’m coming, I’m coming!” John felt his ecstasy peak and blossom, twining his legs through Sherlock’s, jerking with white-hot pleasure. He felt, rather than heard, Sherlock’s bellow as he was tipped over the edge too, feeling the spurts of come spray over their stomachs, mingling in their passionate embrace.

 

Their mouths met as Sherlock quaked through the last blissful twitches of his orgasm, their kiss becoming languorous and lazy as contentment radiated through both of them. Softly John shifted, planting feather-light kisses on both of Sherlock’s cheeks, his nose, eyelids, before taking advantage of his greater height to nestle into the space between his neck and his shoulder – a soft, comforting place that could have been designed for him. Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly round John’s back, drawing him closer, kissing his hair. John used a pair of someone’s discarded boxers to clean them both, then settled firmly into Sherlock’s embrace. Despite the danger – despite the prospect of death before dawn – they each drifted off into a gratified sleep, soothed immeasurably by each other’s company.

......

John was woken an indeterminate amount of time later by Sherlock shuddering beside him. He barely had time to wonder blearily where they were before the cold hit him. The temperature of the room had dropped noticeably – perhaps it was night outside. The tiles were icy around them, sending fingers of frigid pain into John’s exposed skin.

“Sherlock?” he whispered tentatively.

“You’re awake.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“I’m not sure – I drifted off too. It feels like an hour or two – but with no sensory cues it could be anything from fifteen minutes or fifteen hours.” Sherlock sounded supremely disgruntled, hating the lack of data. Before he could add any more, another shiver rolled down his spine, rattling his teeth.

John, fully awake now, stretched out an arm to feel Sherlock next to him, reassurance in the dark. He found his friend’s chest, smoothed his hand downwards over the soft lines of his abdominal muscles. Sherlock made a small hum that sounded appreciative, but John turned towards him, concern deepening, as further shivers racked him. The skin under his fingers had felt incredibly chill to the touch, and John realised how little body fat Sherlock possessed to insulate him.

“How do you feel?” John tried to keep the question light, casual, but of course there was no fooling Sherlock Holmes, even in his freezing state.

“Don’t fuss, John. Everything will be f-f-fine.”

“When you pronounce ‘fine’ with three ‘f’s, things are emphatically not fine.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Yes there is.” John shifted even closer to him, intent on warming him, his stockier build having stood him in better stead for this situation.

“No!” Sherlock tried to pull away, but his arm was still trapped under John’s head. “I won’t have you getting colder any faster than you need to.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock.” John cursed his inability visually examine the man. Judging by touch alone, he was fairly certain that Sherlock’s lips would have taken on a bluish tinge. He was shaking violently constantly now, and John realised that he’d previously been attempting to hold still so as not to wake him. He rubbed his hands firmly over Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to ignore his own discomfort as cold air seemed to dig pointed teeth into his exposed back.

After several minutes, much against his will, Sherlock made a small, comforted noise. “Bit better?” queried John.

“Feel a bit warmer. Thank you.”

“Is the world ending?”

“John?”

“Thanks, from the great Sherlock Holmes? It must be,” quipped John, trying to keep the mood light despite his increasing worry. His own muscles were starting to twitch and contract in an attempt to warm him. Sherlock felt it instantly.

“Come here, then.” Sherlock pulled John towards him, wrapping their legs together and clutching him tight to his chest. It was a bit like snuggling into a statue, thought John, very little warmth radiating from the detective and his hipbones jutting into John’s side. They shivered together, attempting to rub each other’s backs.

“Sh-Should we put our clothes back on?”

Sherlock considered. “I don’t think it’s wise to remove them from the nozzle.”

John nodded, teeth chattering. He was cold down to his bones, now, aching as his body shook against Sherlock’s. He couldn’t imagine how cold his partner must feel if he felt this awful. Trying to let go a held breath, he whimpered unintentionally, causing Sherlock to hug him convulsively closer.

“John...” Now concern was evident in Sherlock’s tone.

“’M fine.”

“You’re in pain.”

“So’re you.”

“Yes, but it’s my fault. I sh-shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“Since when did you ever have to drag me anywhere?” John was bemused. Sherlock thanking him – then apologising? What was happening? “Carry on, and I’ll diagnose you with delirium. You never apologise.” Sherlock was silent beside him. “Hey.” John nudged nose against his friend's cheek, causing Sherlock to flinch away from the cold touch. “Sorry. Trying to be nice. D-difficult with chilly extremities.”

Sherlock breathed a shivery chuckle. “You never stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Trying to make people b-better.”

In answer, John pressed cold lips to Sherlock’s cheek, feeling Sherlock’s back rubbing soften momentarily into a caress in response. They lapsed into silence for a long, long while.

John was daydreaming. He thought of warm things – hot chocolate, a roaring fireside, snuggling under blankets on a winter morning, the sun beating down on a beach... Nothing was working. His muscles ached from their fruitless, constant expansion and contraction. Gradually, though, he realised he was shivering alone. Sherlock had stopped. Terror filled John’s mind, his thoughts feeling foggy and slow. “Sherlock? Are you OK?”

“Mm.” Sherlock sounded asleep, his breathing shallow. John wondered how long he’d been drowsy for.

“Sherlock! You have to stay awake!” John shook him with stiff fingers, feeling Sherlock flop uselessly against him.

“I’m trying, I promise...” Sherlock sounded barely conscious.

John came the closest to panicking he ever had. If Sherlock went to sleep, there was a good chance he wouldn’t be waking up. He hauled at Sherlock’s limbs, simultaneously rolling on to his back. He gasped and cried out as his skin met the icy tiles, but resisted the urge to recoil. He had to get Sherlock off the cold floor. Yanking indelicately, he positioned the other man on top of him, so they were stomach to stomach.

“John... t-try not to let lust overcome you...” Sherlock teased, weakly.

“Keep telling jokes.” John was mildly, momentarily encouraged.

“Humour... doesn’t work well... for me.” John heard Sherlock yawn widely.

“Don’t sleep.” His back was agony. A distracted part of John’s brain idly wondered how it was possible for numbing cold to simultaneously be so cruelly painful. Everything in him felt heavy, exhausted. Time had lost any meaning, and minutes spiralled away into the darkness.

Suddenly, Sherlock struggled against him, finding inhuman strength from somewhere. “Get off – too hot –“

“No!” John, startled out of his stupor, grabbed at him and pinioned his arms with all the power he could muster. Sherlock wriggled, kicking out. “You’re not hot – your mind’s playing tricks on you –“

“No – no –“ Sherlock’s grappling was weakening, muscles reverting to floppiness. He whined, like a fractious child.

“Shh.” John gentled him, reaching his head forward, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s forehead, soothing him.

“My fault...” murmured Sherlock.

“S’not. We have... have to stay awake...” John felt an incredible lassitude over taking him. He didn’t feel cold anymore. A distant, academic part of his brain was struggling weakly against the lethargy – but nothing about the situation seemed to make sense any more. He relaxed, feeling Sherlock lie his head against his neck, curls tickling lightly against his skin. He wanted to hold him... his arms fought the tiredness for a few minutes longer, but as his brain gave up the struggle his fingers slipped apart, gravity pulling his arms down. Sleep wrapped around him, closer than his lover, and he gave himself up to its embrace.

~~~~~

“John?... John?” Shouted words. A long way away. Down a tunnel. “John?” Echoing.

“Sh’lock...” he slurred. A great weight was yanked off him, giving him the odd sensation that he was floating upwards, as though in deep water. Vaguely, he perceived voices around him, the sounds peculiar, making no sense.

“...blankets... need help!” Someone was so frantic about something. He should help. He couldn’t move. A groan escaped him in the form of a sighed-out breath. Sleep lapped at him again, tempting, beckoning.

SMACK. A harsh pain slapped into John as a palm was sharply brought down against his shoulder. He tried to flinch, but couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to react. His muscles refused. SMACK. Again. His head rolled. The man was still shouting.

“... still alive... only barely...” Distant, muffled voice. John wondered why he was under the water. If he was underwater.

“John!” Hands grabbed at him, pushed and pulled. Something wrapped round him, he thought. But he couldn’t feel it properly against his skin. There was the vague sensation of movement, and then unconsciousness once again manhandled him down, down, down.  He fell, tumbling into insensibility, feeling faintly the flutter of busy hands above and around him as he dropped.

  



End file.
